


taffy

by winchysteria



Category: Nancy Drew (TV 2019)
Genre: Drabble, F/F, Friends With Benefits, Pining, [chanting as i watch this garbage dream show] GAY GAY GAY, anyway there wasn't any gay shit written for this show yet and honestly it deserves some love, barely, implied car sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21590704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchysteria/pseuds/winchysteria
Summary: Things between Bess and George are not complicated. They're not. They're not!
Relationships: George Fan/Bess Marvin, George Fayne/Bess Marvin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	taffy

**Author's Note:**

> hi i love this show it's so dumb and great and in desperate need of more sapphic things. i would be remiss if i did not provide. i guess just pretend that lisbeth isn't a thing in this? like bess is not cheating on her i promise. anyway see y'all later when it's Gay Hours again

“You’re good at that,” Bess says lightly, snapping the thin chain of her necklace back together.

“Yeah, and you’re exhausting,” George shoots back. Her lipstick is _everywhere_ , chin to nose; she grabs a makeup wipe out of the center console. She’d made sure to have a package in her car at all times, ever since the first time they did this—George wears drugstore lipstick, and she wears it dark, and that combination of things makes post-car-hookup cleanup near-impossible. Customers had given her little holier-than-thou smirks all night, and as with most things, George did not have the fucking time for that.

Blessedly, Bess pulls herself back together as quickly as George does, without being offended by the need to pretend that they’re not doing—this. Whatever this is.

It’s a product of her con-artist background, probably, George thinks. The ability to play any part necessary at the drop of the hat. The part of a moneyed heiress visiting rural Maine on a whim. The part of a perky waitress too ditsy to listen in on anyone’s conversation. The part of a girl who is absolutely, definitely not steaming up the windows of George’s shitty sedan in the Claw’s parking lot whenever they get a spare minute.

Either that, or this is as meaningless to Bess as scratching an itch.

Which would be fine, George thinks, swiping on a new coat of plum-colored lipstick in her rearview mirror. If this was anything more complicated than that, it would be a terrible idea.

She straightens her braids and cranes her neck to make sure there aren’t any new cars in the parking lot. Nancy is supposed to be taking care of the whole floor, and god knows she’s not exactly Queen On-Task.

“I can literally hear you putting the stick back up your ass,” Bess says. “It’s 2:30 on a Wednesday afternoon. We’re not missing a big rush, Georgie.”

Bess looks so goddamn delicate doing everything: swiftly pinning her hair back into place, reapplying powder, rubbing at a red line on her calf where it had pressed into the center console too hard. “Well, you’re definitely lying,” George says, a little belatedly. “The stick never comes out.”

Bess laughs at that, sharp and aerial, like a gymnast arcing off the uneven bars. Like she’s surprised. George finds herself desperate to repeat the magic trick.

But this is the part where they open the car door and step outside and straighten their dresses and pretend that none of this happened. Because really, they can barely stand each other. Really, they are acquaintances more than friends, and they are certainly not—involved. Together. Whatever. Really, this whole arrangement is just the result of a difficult summer full of ghosts and murder, constant proximity, and some questions George had that Bess was willing to answer.

Sure enough, Bess opens her car door—George’s is too close to the side of the restaurant to open—and starts to slide out. The briny bay wind slaps George’s cheeks, reminds her that someday she will see the last of Bess, but she will never see the last of Horseshoe Bay.

Bess adores the salt air. She breathes it in deeply, one foot in and one foot out of the car. George hates her for her ability to love it. When Bess turns around, something of that thought must show on George’s face, because she pauses. “Would you believe me if I told you your face would get stuck like that?” she asks.

George, at the edge of the car seat but unable to get out, just glares up at her. “It already is.”

Bess tuts. Then she bends down, like an illustrated fairy on the edge of a leaf, and kisses George. Like always, she cups George’s jaw with a hand that smells like eucalyptus. Like always, the kiss makes it hard to remember that there are hard limits to the possible. And like always, it makes George’s traitor heart go young and energetic in her chest, lifting upward as if drawn by Bess’s proximity.

When they separate, George is momentarily unable to grouchily ask what that was for. She just watches the tendrils of hair dance around the sides of Bess’s face. Bess reaches down with her right hand to tap the skin between George’s eyebrows.

“See?” she says. “You’re not stuck like that at all.”


End file.
